


A Kingdom Crossed

by spooklock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Curses, Destined love, Doctor John, Dragons, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Knights - Freeform, Lore - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Pining, Prince Sherlock, Romance, Soulmates, captive Sherlock, fairy tale, mythical creatures, prince - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 15:58:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18831901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spooklock/pseuds/spooklock
Summary: Prince Sherlock has completed nearly every task he must accomplish in order to become king, a destiny he has assumed without much question for many years now. What should be an easy mission- invade the mountain, kill the dragon, reclaim the kingdom- becomes so much more than anyone ever imagined it could be, including the dragon.When the Prince is taken hostage inside the mountain, which is haunted by night with the desperate and sorrowful wails from the souls of past and present citizens of the kingdom, he meets a doctor, also hostage, who tends to his wounds caused by the dragon.When the Prince escapes, he is regaled with welcomes and a promise that his near-death will be avenged. But this is not at all what the Prince wants. Forgiveness, of self and others, a fated love affair, a soulmate bond powerful enough to break a centuries' old curse, magic, prophecy, and a trial which will not only determine the fate of his soulmate but also that of the kingdom itself- the journey is treacherous, but they have little choice- it's fight for love or die trying.





	1. Once Upon A Plan

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This work is unfinished and may very well stay that way. It has been a QIP for over a year now and with tthe recent changes in Tumblr's setup I, along with most others, have migrated onward away from fandom. However, i check in from time to time, and who knows- maybe posting this will inspire me to finish it. 
> 
> This work began as a request from a person who is no longer in the fandom to my knowledge. I would tag them but it seems futile. 
> 
> Nothing is unwelcome- let me know what you think, I love comments, messages (Spooklock on Tumblr), requests (although the responses will likely be short), or general friendliness in any capacity. I love you, and thank you for reading!

In a time long ago there was an old, beautiful kingdom bursting with magic. The sprawling land was home to many quiet hamlets, each unique to the last. The people of the kingdom were different in many ways, but it could be guaranteed that any two strangers plucked at random would have this in common, if nothing else: they valued harmony.   
The monarchy held proudly to a legacy of justice, progress, and prosperity. The kingdom was called Divina, and its properties stretched from the mysterious fog-soaked moors in the north, to the glittering Sea of Peace in the south. Across the vast enchanted forests- so deep and dark in places no human alive today could tell a truthful tale of their real nature- over the plains, farms, gurgling streams, and all the way east, to the very far edges of the Hue Mountains. Truly an enchanted place, these mountains varied in color, each holding seldom secrets of their own.   
“You know, legend says the mountains are a rainbow because the soil and rock content on each of them was claimed and dedicated to a different mage with different powers when they were first discovered by a group of wandering witches and wizards.” Or at least, this is the tale told to school children by educators and parents. But they said this to satisfy curious children; truthfully, the mountains are different colors for a much more complex reason.  
In Divina, when a person is transitioning from childhood to young adulthood, they discover their Heart Skill. Heart Skills are a calling, innate in truth and neither chosen by the skill itself nor the user. Heart Skills can be anything from painting to writing, singing, playing an instrument, gardening- the list is infinite. Some Heart Skills are in mathematics, charting the stars; discovering new healing properties of plants when combined with certain ingredients. Nurturing and parenthood. Keeping a safe and healthy physical environment for your community. Judging on issues of legislation, or leading a team of knights on expeditions. It is the thing that engages it’s users’ hearts in the deepest ways.   
Typically, a Heart Skill reveals itself when its user discovers how the act makes them feel, deep down. A child may pluck the strings of a harp her whole life, but one day when she’s fourteen, she sits down to play and does so with the intensity of a professional. This is because now she relates feelings from her life to playing, and can channel an experience into song.   
When Heart Skills are first discovered, and at subsequent moments when emotion is intense, the Heartstring Fog flows from their hands and surrounds them. Fogs are of different colors; often, a person’s fog is one color or of different intensities of one color for their whole life. But sometimes, especially in the case of musicians and writers, the fog can more freely reflect the tone of their creation in the form of different colors. Blue fogs reflect sadness, and related emotions. Reds reflect passion and ferocity; green typically pour from the hands of those who do their skill with the intention of changing, growing, and replenishing others. The array of possible Heartstring Fog colors is endless, and when the fog is released, it affects any whom breathe it in or stand in its presence with the intensity and emotion of the person who released it. Thus, fogs act as aids in helping their conjurer convey their true heart’s intentions.   
The fogs get their power from the Hue Mountains. The voices of Heart Skill users can be heard on quiet nights on these mountains. The joyous laughter of children, the arguments of passionate officials; the preaching of clergy, and the tears of sorrowful people, all whispered like ghosts to those who are present and listening.   
This legend is kept from children due in part to its complex nature, yes, but also to protect them- experiencing these whispers is often an intense, overwhelming and sometimes painful thing for a young heart. Often, even strong hikers didn’t return for several days- having to take their time to complete the journey home. No one ever returned quite the same- to listen to the most intimate thoughts and feelings of others in such a way never ceases to tap intensely into the feelings of those who dare listen. So one could see how unprepared, curious minds- susceptible to extreme influence, especially prior to tapping into their Heart Skill- should be kept at bay.   
Prince Sherlock discovered his Heart Skill at an astoundingly young age of six years old when he pulled the bow of a gift violin across its new strings on Christmas morning. A light blue fog started to flow out from his hands. To the applause of his family and about thirty palace staff persons, he felt pride at accomplishing such a milestone- and couldn’t shake a sinking feeling at knowing that playing the violin would be an outlet for his loneliness through his adult life. He had always suspected his young life was different from other children’s experiences. To have it confirmed for him among mere strangers, who applauded him for conjuring such a melancholy Heartstring Fog (never even questioning the cause for such a heavy emotion) was a kick of salt in the fresh wound.   
Now the prince is twenty-seven. His parents are of good health, but aging. His older brother, Prince Mycroft, had abdicated the throne a few years prior in favor of continuing with his position in the House of Paladins. The current monarchs weren’t in any particular rush to step down. However, all involved felt it was time the prince began taking steps to complete his pre-coronation duties.   
Each blood heir had to complete a handful of tasks in order to ensure their preparedness to take the throne. First, expectant monarchs must complete several years of study in addition to their standard education as a child. This includes subjects such as ethics, philosophy, history- of surrounding and far off kingdoms, but of their own as well of course- arts, and mathematics. This, in addition to extensive investigations into the various species in theirs and surrounding kingdoms- ogres to giants, dwarves to elves, fae, centaurs, unicorns, witches, shaman, and everyone else in between. An ignorant king serves only himself, his father says.   
Next, they must complete several years of study in a skill used by working subjects, a task which gave insight into the lives of those whom they will one day guard and govern. During this time, heirs lived in the homes of their apprenticeship teachers. Prince Sherlock chose to apprentice with a branch of the government that took over in cases of crime which were not easily solved. He was incredibly adept at his task. By the conclusion, he wielded skill which surpassed even his supervisors. Greg, his host, was a kind man not much his senior. On one particular case, the Prince found himself in his brother’s office. Access to some classified records was negotiated, and when the young prince left to investigate a lead, Greg stayed behind. The next morning, the young prince was startled by the sight of his older brother drinking tea at the breakfast table in the house of his tutor.   
“Might we expect a happy announcement sometime soon?”  
His brother just sipped his tea, raising an eyebrow over the rim of his cup.  
Finally, monarchs must complete a service- a major task, often involving sacrifice, negotiation, bravery, or the use of extreme skill- which serves their kingdom. Past monarchs had made huge contributions and solved many problems in the kingdom through the completion of this task. His brother, prior to abdicating, had caught and captured a wizard who disguised himself by taking the form of other people in order to commit crimes while framing them. The wizard, who called himself Magnussen, was finally captured and put behind magic- suppressing bars. His father had made contact with the fae people, which involved taking the time to learn their complex languages and etiquette rules- something no human, let alone a monarch, had done in several regencies. The current king was able to finally provide for the fae the resources necessary to have translated educational material, from English to Feilish, brought to them. Schools were built, and everyone, children to elders, began learning just as other children of privileged origin could.   
One morning, the prince was pacing his chambers, thinking about his final task. His chambers were laced lightly with the purple fog of deep thought which he most often conjured when playing to stimulate his mind. Passing servants and staff knew not to disturb the prince if music from his chambers met them in the passages outside his room; a dense layer of purple fog engrossing the floor around his chamber doors an especially strong warning.   
The Prince had been raised of course to behave in a respectable and polite manner; however, if he were to be disturbed while thinking, or felt disrespected in any way, his harsh words and temper would put the offender in their place.   
As the sun broke through his windows, his plan was set; the prince would gather a party of experienced riders and set out to defeat the beast on Blue Mountain.


	2. Oddly Comfortable

For over three centuries, legends of a Beast- whispered from ear to ear among children and shouted in anger over pints in pubs- terrorized the kingdom. It lived somewhere on Blue Mountain- and it must be a fierce creature, for certain. The surrounding atmosphere on Blue Mountain cycles a perpetual winter- piercing winds, heavy snowfall, and slick stones covered with ice make it impossible for traverse to an inexperienced adventurer. The sorrowful cries of anyone who had ever conjured a blue Heartstring Fog rang out like wounded soldiers on a battlefield. Anyone mad enough to scale the mountain came back even more disturbed.   
What made the Beast so terrifying was its aloof nature. Few had ever seen it; those who had refused to speak about it, other than to say it’s not to be trifled with. Cases of crop theft- entire fields would turn up empty when farmhands went out to work in the mornings!- missing farm animals, and empty bank vaults, fresh out of gold, would pop up every now and then. Not often, but when it happened, the amount of goods stolen could only have been done by a large party of skilled thieves- or the massive creature which sent nosey hikers running in terror back from Blue Mountain.   
It was an idea, a nightmare that lived and grew in the shadows and fears of its prey. They couldn’t see it, but they felt its eyes watching them from miles above on its hidden perch. It was the sort of thing which lurked quietly, never seen, but its name brought chills to those who dare speak it: Dragon. And the prince had decided that he would not let it terrorize his people under his rule.  
So, he commissioned a selective group of knights to join him in a quest to find, infiltrate, and kill the creature. Bringing home its thieved goods and ending the reign of fear. Within his party, he chose carefully who to include: There was Molly Hooper, a highly intuitive navigator. Gregory Lestrade, his once tutor, a man of observation and quite possibly the most skilled marksman he had ever met. Irene Adler, a powerful witch capable of casting spells with a riding crop which she enchanted to harness the abilities of many varieties of wands. Mike Stanford, an expert in magical creatures. And a handful of other knights, some hired, some volunteer, present simply as back up and reassurance. Taking on such a creature, after all, was no task for just one brave soul.   
The party trekked through secluded woods for three days before reaching the base of Blue Mountain. A slight chill hung in the air, as if hovering around a large block of ice in an otherwise temperate atmosphere. As the climb was steep and the ground iced over, they tied their horses and brought only the essentials on their backs.   
The climb took nearly half of another day; conditions were intense, and difficult. Even with the help of their fellow travelers. The voices the team heard were heart-wrenching. Every now and then, a member of the team would stop and stare blankly. Often, this was a sign that they had recognized one of the voices. Sometimes as someone they knew, sometimes as their own. The prince prayed his secrets would remain lost among the others. Eventually, they pulled themselves up, one by one, onto a ledge. To their sudden discovery, there was a precipice leading far down into a mote, engulfed in darkness. They could see nothing below but, judging by the intense heat coming from the gap and the smell of brimstone, they could assume easily the nature of what lie below. Carrying precariously on, they walked one foot in front of the other, along the ledge in search of a bridge of some sort.   
Eventually, they approached a formation of rock on the side of the mountain across the gap which looked odd among the others. Suddenly, they heard from above an absolutely terrible sound; one which they had never heard the likes of before. The sound was near deafening, and chilled them to the bone. The knights fought to keep their balance, some catching themselves with shaking hands on the hot rocks underfoot. The sound of massive wings and another piercing screech seemed to approach, but from where?   
And then they saw it- approaching impossibly fast from below, out of the fires. The party scrambled for their weapons, ready to take aim and shoot the creature out of the sky. But as they did, it breathed a cloud of smoke and flame over their heads, just close enough to singe the tops of their helmets. As such creatures were a rarity, knowledge on dragons and how to defeat them was minimal. The last dragon to exist in recorded history lived nearly nine centuries ago. No research had prepared them for such an adaptation.   
The party fled back down the mountain, slipping and tumbling on ice covered rocks. In his haste, Prince Sherlock slipped on the ledge and began to fall backwards into the darkness. Falling endlessly through darkness, feeling the approach of heat, he was shocked when his body hit something hard. In the darkness, he couldn’t see much of anything; but he was able to discern the feeling of scales and talons surrounding him, carrying him vertically. He wasn’t falling anymore, but what was actually happening still remained unclear. His senses went dark; the feeling of the heat from below fading into cold once more was the last he knew before everything was dark.

 

The prince’s eyes are heavy when they finally open. His body is weak, and he feels delirious. How much time has passed? Is this the same day? And where am I? He sits up abruptly, but immediately regrets in. A pain shoots from the base to the top of his spine and then back down, begging him to resume lying down. Shocks of agony spread through his body like lightning strikes; bone, muscle, and skin all scream with protest. He recalls the last events in his memory; falling. Endlessly. Then sudden, rough contact- scales, talons, and flight. His knights, fleeing for their lives. And fire- from below, from above, seemingly consuming everything. What little information he had added up to a single conclusion he simply could not fathom.   
He looks around, searching first for immediate dangers. But he finds none- in fact, he’s quite comfortable. He’s warm, in a soft bed with heavy quilts. A quiet fire pops and simmers, illuminating the room. Additional candles have been lit for extra lighting, as the sun has disappeared from the view of his large window. Outside, the wind and rain thrash violently, but the storm is blocked by heavy curtains and glass. Behind the bricks and stone of whatever this place was, the noise is muffled and calming. Given the conditions outside, despite it technically being summer at the palace, he could only guess where he was now- a sense of doom sunk into his stomach, low and looming. He observed more, hoping to take in as much as possible about his surroundings.   
Soft, thick rugs cover the cold stone floors. Luxurious, ornate furnishings are staggered about. Claw foot chairs and tables; large, delicately carved armoires; brightly colored artworks and shelves upon shelves of books. Two large sets of heavy wooden doors catch his attention- the first being found to his left, and the second, farther down the long wall, tucked away in a corner. He hopes that one of them leads to a lavatory, as his skin is dusted heavily with charcoal and his hair smells of the wilderness.  
He rises tentatively, feeling the ache in his back, and decides to try the doors in the corner. He creeps slowly, silently over and takes the handle gently in his fingers. Never had the man turned a door handle more slowly in his life. To his euphoric relief, a private room with an adjoining fireplace and facilities similar to what he had become accustomed to in the palace met his eyes. On the far wall sat a large standing tub near an equally impressive window. He found that, like his at the palace, a simple three taps to the bottom of the tub would activate its enchantment, and the basin began to fill with hot water. Sherlock locked the door- as if this would stop a dragon from entering, should the master of the house find itself peckish- and stripped away his messy clothes.   
Despite the uncertainty of his situation, he found the bath more than relaxing; the heat sunk in to his aching muscles, warming his bones. His skin was washed, and left smelling of honeysuckle and clean rain. After his bath, he dried with a clean cloth laid next to the fire, wrapping himself in it. Unsure of how to proceed; his clothes were dirty- putting them back on would be extremely uncomfortable.   
He then recalled the armoire in the bedchamber, and exited the room nearly as slowly as he had entered. Luckily, the rooms were well heated by the fire. There was an unfortunate incident in which, while crossing the room, his foot touched an icy tile, still slightly wet. The shock was incredibly jarring, and for a moment he froze, thinking an attack was underway.   
Once at the chest of drawers he reached for the top handle, but the drawer reached out as well. It met his hands gently. Inside, he found pajamas of varying weights, all of which were his taste and size. He chose a dark blue set in a heavy fabric, and dressed quickly. Returning his cloth to the other room, he entered again to the bedchamber, this time with a curious mind. He was accustomed to magic like this in the palace, but to find it elsewhere was odd. Magic like this required skillful casting and upkeep. Although his knowledge on dragons was quite limited, he was fairly certain they weren’t magic users. He found that the other drawers held clothing of all kinds; formal wear, every day items, hunting garments…It was then that he noticed an item hanging on a hook on the other side of the armoire. It was of a dark red, silken material, and it was adorned with black trimming and elegant gold stitching. Pulling it down, he realized that the item was a long robe, which could be tied at the waist with a black sash.   
Wrapping himself up, the material was cool and divinely smooth against his skin. He tied the sash, and ventured an exploration of the breast pocket. Although the material lied flat against his chest, once his fingers delved in, he found a pipe and a small vile of a substance he had seen his father and grandfather smoking on several occasions. He emptied the substance into the bowl and lit the pipe on a nearby candle.   
Sherlock decided to take a look at the bookshelves. He began first with the titles at eye level, then climbed the rolling ladder and looked inquisitively at the books above. Titles of all sorts, including some books with no titles, passed before his eyes. Everything from magic to subjects like astronomy, poetry, and classic literature. Books in every language he could recognize, and several in some he did not.  
Eventually, a thin black book caught his eye. It had no title, or discerning marks. He opened the cover, careful to balance on the steps as steadily as possible. Flicking through the first few pages, he saw that the words inside were hand written, and not copied text. The writing was neat and deliberate. Just as he began to read, one sharp knock- which was borderline a pound- unsteadied him, nearly causing him to fall.   
Gathering himself once more, the prince caught his breath and climbed down, unsure what his plan was. Had a dragon just knocked on his door? And if so, what could it possibly want, especially enough to be moderately polite about it?  
He found himself for the third time that night pausing outside a door, trying to build the courage to open it. He knew these doors must lead to whatever was outside the familiarity of this room. Opening the door slowly, fully expecting to meet his end, he found the place devoid of other life. He peered around carefully, checking even the ceiling above. Nowhere in sight nor sound did he detect any movement or presence.   
He decided to take a step out, testing the waters. But he was startled again, similarly to the experience earlier with the cold tile, when his foot nudged something hard and brassy. He looked down to find a large metal tray full of food. The tray popped up, sprouting wheels and legs, and wheeled itself in, settling by the armchair at the fire. Checking once more for a dragon ready to laugh in his face, he decided to take what was given.  
He shut the door again, and joined his cart by the fire. The meal was exquisite, even by his standards. His body was completely void of nourishment, so despite his delicate and temperamental appetite of routine, he found that the meal went down easily. Delicious smoked meat, hearty potatoes, vegetables and fruits so full of taste it was as if it weren’t winter outside. Warm, fresh bread and mulled wine, even hot, melting cakes for dessert.   
When he was finished, a teapot on a lower shelf he hadn’t noticed before whistled quietly at him, playing a soothing lullaby rather than howling harshly. He poured himself a cup and drank slowly, letting his meal settle. The teapot hopped off the cart, nestling near the fire. The cart then took it upon itself to roll away, exiting out the door which opened and shut behind it.   
After his tea, he sat the cup next to its pot and settled into bed. As his bath lingered on his skin, the meal settled deeper into his stomach. He was almost able to forget that a terrifying dragon loomed somewhere nearby. 

*************************************************************************************

The sun rose over the mountain slowly, with brilliant color. As the prince slept peacefully, someone else was still awake. All the way down the very long, spiraling staircase, in the very farthest room, John walked about his expansive suite, pacing frantically. He scrubbed hands down his face, pulled mindlessly at his hair, thinking in circles about what to do. This morning, for the first time in over three centuries, he had woken up in his dragon sized bed, in his dragon sized room, a man.   
His hands, his face, his body was finally his again. It had been so long, he’d needed to take a few moments to remember how to move and stand and walk as a human again. When he realized what had made him this way once more, he nearly fell over for another reason.   
Of course it had to be him.   
John was filled with panic; he knew, all too well, what would happen next. Eventually, the prince would leave. Either he would find the bravery within himself to risk escaping past the ‘beast’, or figure out that there no longer was one. Waltzing out a free man, laughing cruelly.   
His body contracted uncontrollably at the thought; living out the rest of his days; aging, dying, alone in misery. Never seeing that face again, never having had a chance with the person who finally, after agonizing years alone, made him a person once more. Finally, he has hands, and lips, and arms, and the man that freed him. How cruel it was then that he could never have the chance to enjoy them.   
As he panicked, he searched his mind for an opportunity, a way to keep the man here. Even just for a few days. Eventually he recalled with a grimace the injuries he had caused the prince in saving him the day prior. His back was bruised and sore- not broken, but certainly cause for correction and healing. Normally, injuries like that could be taken care of swiftly, in the matter of an hour. But maybe he should take extra care, extra time with the procedure…

*************************************************************************************

The prince awoke to a gentler tap on his door. This time though, the door opened on its own. To his relief, the cart from the night before wheeled in, carrying with it a cheerful energy. The tea pot and cup returned to him, clean and full of black tea. His breakfast was full of hearty eggs and potatoes, fresh fruits, and some sort of bread filled with bits of something he had never seen before. The things were dark brown and tasted delightful, melting warmly in his mouth, sweetness spreading richly over his tongue. Whatever it was, it was delicious.   
Under his plate there was a piece of folded parchment. He opened it, surprised to find a hand-written note in fresh ink:  
Your Highness,  
Good morning, and welcome. I hope you’ve slept well, and found that your needs for comfort  
are met. You’ve noticed by now that you’ve sustained a severe injury to your back- not to worry. I’m a trained healer, and shall be able to restore you with just a few visits. I’m also the live-in caretaker, so if you should require anything more, just leave a note posted to your door. If it’s alright with you, I’ll see you in your room this evening one hour after supper for the first healing. It’s a routine fix, and painless.   
Dr. John H. Watson  
Magical Healer  
Caretaker  
A caretaker? Up until then, he’d assumed he and the dragon were the only living creatures here. But, looking around, it did make sense. His room was immaculate, there were lit fires out in the hall at all hours, and the food was exquisite. It would take a hell of a lot of magic to make all that happen without the hands of a capable creature, and he just couldn’t see a dragon baking bread and pouring him a glass of wine every night. The thought of another non-murderous creature in this- place- was quite comforting. The thought of getting some relief for his painful back was extremely comforting.   
The cart left once more, closing the door gently behind him. He climbed slowly, painfully out of bed, feeling surprisingly well rested. Walking to the window, he looked out, hoping to bring some context to the whereabouts of his location. He could tell easily that he was on Blue Mountain, and very high up. Below, he saw the tops of the other mountains, as well as forests that went on for eternity.   
He remembered last night, when he had peered out the door into the dwelling. At the time, he had been much more concerned with locating any imminent threats, but he recalled a few things. First, a hallway, with a half wall which overlooked some kind of precipice leading down below. Second, a high ceiling, which came to a peak, and instead of stone, was carved out of glass. Finally, winding stairs, which lead down to his right, nothing but a brick wall to his left. He decided to peer out once more, hoping to add more knowledge to his situation.   
He found it was getting easier and easier to open the door- this time pausing only momentarily. Stepping out, he looked around once more. This time, sunlight drained in heavily from above through beautiful stained glass windows, which offered views of the sky above. He saw the half wall across the wide passage, lined with sconces which glowed orange with flame. He saw across to the stone wall on the other side of the gap, and noticed that the winding stairway to his right actually went all the way down, over several stories to the floor far below, which opened onto one large, circular room. The hallway was punctuated by sets of doors like his every few feet; there must have been at least fifty of them. And below, there were large, high backed chairs and a beautiful piano in front of a fireplace (which, when the winding stairs passed along it, did so behind a full wall, shielding anyone who walked along the hallway from the heat) so tall, it stopped only a handful of stories below where he stood now. He was indeed in the very last room at the top of the mountain which was almost entirely hollowed out into this dwelling. He shut the door quietly, guessing that only short bursts of immense luck were enough of a gamble to ask for.   
The prince spent the day pacing, trying to decide how to proceed. If he stayed, he was unsure-although he could guess- what would happen. If he attempted escape, he was unsure-although he could guess- what would happen. It seemed that either way was both a chance to survive, as well as a massive opportunity for death. But as it was, he was far too weak now to attempt an escape. It would have to wait until he was recovered.   
The midday cart greeted him with hot cuts of chicken, bread, honey, and sweet preserves. His teapot was always ready for him, and he could always find a tall glass of fresh, cold water on the counter surface near the wash basin. He even found fresh leaves for his pipe where he had first discovered them last night. Looking around, the prince was baffled; despite assuming he was being held here, he felt…welcome. Like someone wanted him to be comfortable.   
Precisely one hour after his cart left his side at the fire, a soft knocking came to the door. “Come in,” he said tentatively.


	3. Captivated

Both doors swung gently open and a large, low table wheeled in, settling in near the fire like the meal cart often did. Following it was a man. What he lacked in height, he made up for in evident muscle, hidden somewhat beneath his doctor’s robes. His sleeves were rolled, revealing strong forearms. The man appeared to be about five or seven years his senior, with gray-gold hair, slicked back from his face. Although his expression was tired, and almost grim, his eyes were undeniably kind. A dark blue, and they looked at Sherlock like he was not of this Earth; hungry for information and interaction. Sherlock stared openly for a brief moment. This man…he seemed familiar. Had they met before?   
The man strode over to the bed where Sherlock was sitting, extending a hand to shake. “John,” he said, clasping his hand. Once their hands were joined, neither wanted to be the first to pull away; Sherlock stared in awe, unable to fathom why he felt so warmed by a simple hand shake. He decided eventually that the combination of relief on both their parts at seeing another non-dragon being was likely the best explanation.   
Eventually, they slipped apart. John opened his mouth, deciding several seconds later on what to say. “Well, I- if it’s alright with you- I’ll be doing a series of healing processes on you. Like I said, none of it should be painful, but it is a several night’s process. Should take the better part of a week.”  
Sherlock couldn’t help it; he needed some answers, and he knew this man would have something to give him. “John?”  
“Yes?”  
“Forgive me, but why are you here? Are you a prisoner to the dragon? And…what are its plans for me?”  
John sighed, putting his hands in his pockets in resignation. He stood, staring at his feet, then looked up at his patient once more. “Yes, you could definitely say I’m here against my will. You needn’t worry for me, I’m well taken care of. There’s plenty of food and the fires are lit, but no, I cannot leave. As far as your circumstances go…well, I’m not sure at this point. He was infuriated at the attack yesterday, he doesn’t appreciate being disturbed. “  
“You speak to that- thing?”  
John chuckled darkly, sadness clear in his face which he hid partially by turning slightly away. “Yes, we’re well acquainted. If I get any word about his plans for you, I’ll let you know. In the meantime I think you can relax, though. Despite the legends, he’s not one to kill or torture. “  
“He did save me yesterday. I wonder why that was? Would it not have been simpler to let me, the leader of the brigade of all people, die?”  
John looked back at him suddenly, with a sharpness in his eyes. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, brushing back a piece of hair falling in his eyes. “Well, whatever reason he had, I’m grateful he saw one. You know, coming from me this surely sounds odd… but there are a lot of inaccuracies hovering around regarding this place.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yes. Consider your own expectations- not once has he ever harmed anyone, even intruders, and yet you expected to be eaten for a snack. He’s never harmed anyone, not even so much as a theft, and yet at least once a year someone from down there tries to come and kill him.”  
“I happen to know that’s not true. Crops and livestock, not to mention heaps of gold go missing overnight all the time. It’s always far too much damage to have been even a group of thieves, and here he is, up here feasting every night! What do you call that?”  
“Thorn Magic.” John stated, with a hint of anger. “It’s rare, and powerful, but it’s real.”  
“And what exactly is this Thorn Magic?”  
“When a transmutation curse is cast by a dark wizard, a curse is also placed on the kingdom in which the victim resides. It serves as a ‘thorn’, if you will, adding in the agony of the victim. If he were simply forced to live here as a dragon, things may not necessarily be too horrid. He may even be able to make some kind of contact with the right people, possibly finding relief, or at the very least companionship. But Thorn Magic serves to incriminate the victim. Isolate them.“  
Sherlock sat, quite shocked. Thorn Magic was never even discussed in his studies, but it made sense. When he had looked around earlier, there were no piles of gold, no heaps of grain or fruit. He definitely did not detect the presence of herds of farm animals.   
“And all the while, we were to believe that the creature was responsible for so much loss and fear. But really it was a horrible, cruel curse.”  
John nodded, glad to see his words had gotten through. “As future king, I feel terrible. I should have known better. But that doesn’t explain why you’re bound here.”  
John thought for a while once more- speaking about these things was not an easy thing for him. “He didn’t take well to my trying to help him, let’s leave it at that.”  
A chill ran down Sherlock’s spine at the thought of being trapped here for the rest of his life. If John had tried to help him, what would the dragon do to someone who had tried to kill him? Someone he now had well within his grasp?  
“Try not to worry, your highness. It won’t help anything. And as I said- I’ve known him well for a very long time. He’s not the kind to bring harm. Now, why don’t you join me over here for the procedure. If you would, lie on this table- the first step is to massage the affected area with this. It’s a medication of my own making, and it helps to prepare the bones and muscles to heal.”   
Sherlock removed his robe and the top of his pajamas- he had had the luxury of massages on demand at the palace, and although he often felt it too demanding to request one, they did help to relieve the stress of his life back on the rare occasion he did indulge. He contemplated something John had said- he had known the dragon for a very long time. How long has he been here? He’s so familiar, but if he’s been imprisoned here for that long could we realistically have encountered one another? As he did so, the doctor warmed the jar of his medication on the hearth. A short while later, the doctor joined him.  
“Ready?”  
“I am”  
“Do let me know if you experience any discomfort.”  
But as the doctor’s hands began spreading the warm medication across his skin, he knew there would not be such an issue. The instant relief to his aching body was blissful. The doctor’s hands were sure and firm as they worked the paste into his skin. As the man kneaded and pushed gently into his tight muscles, careful to avoid any particularly painful areas, Sherlock tried with great effort to control the sighs he felt he wanted to release. Not even the lead masseur at the palace could compare.   
The feeling of his palms working deep into his knotted back and gentle fingertips stroking over his bunched up spine was indescribable. As his mind quieted, something occurred to him. This was, oddly enough, the most intimate thing that had ever happened to him. He was no stranger to a good massage, but this felt somehow different. A bit of sadness washed in at that realization, especially knowing that the circumstances were professional.   
As John worked over him he found himself lost several times in the sight of the prince’s beautiful, pale skin. Warm under his hands, smooth and soft. Marred, here and there- bruises he caused. Pain he caused. And now he had the audacity to try and keep him here, and for what? It wasn’t as if he intended to tell him about his curse, or what it meant for them. For them, he realized- in keeping this from the prince, he also kept the other man from realizing his own destiny. And as hard as it was to fathom, a part of him knew that when he left, the prince would always feel oddly empty. Like he was meant to be elsewhere. But the thought of bearing himself like that was too much. Selfish, he thought. You had better savor this, you only have so much time with him. You’re not fit to touch him like this. And he did savor it- with every new touch, he payed immense attention to the feeling his hands found. The sight of him, glowing orange and yellow, deep shadows made by the fire. Raven curls, lean muscles. Just a little bit lanky, and those eyes. No color had ever shown itself to him before that matched such a unique shade, not in his three and a half centuries of life.   
When he was done, he realized he would have to wake the man lying on his exam table. The temptation to continue on unnecessarily was almost inescapable, as was the possibility of simply standing here, watching him. Knowing how wrong that was, he scolded himself internally, gently waking the other man with a quiet voice and gentle hand.   
“Hmm? Oh, Apologies, doctor.”  
“Call me John, your highness. No need to apologize. You’re done for this evening.”  
Sherlock sat up, rubbing the back of his neck and stretching. The sight of his torso- his strong arms and lean abdomen, and the longest neck John had ever seen- illuminated in the firelight was devastating to the doctor. John went about collecting his things, trying desperately not to gawk or indulge any other urges.   
“Sherlock,” said the prince.   
“What?”  
“Call me Sherlock.”

*************************************************************************************

The next evening, John returned at the same time. He brought with him a small arsenal of medical equipment and performed a routine examination of his overall health.  
“I should have done this last night,” he said, warming the stethoscope between his hands, “But you seemed in good health, and I hadn’t the heart to keep you awake.”  
“I appreciate this,” the prince said, “It’s nice to have someone around. “  
“I agree, I hate to see someone injured like this, but the company is lovely to have.”   
As John checked his heart, he felt a comfort in the warmth of his hand on Sherlock’s chest. He listened to his lungs, and the pulse in his throat; he checked his kidneys, and asked him to breathe deeply. All the while experiencing a heady concoction of guilt and elation at putting his hands on the warm body in front of him. John checked his ears, and his (stunning, perfect) eyes. He felt his throat for any swelling or inflammation, all the while reeling at the sensation and sight of his hands on the flesh of his patient. Three centuries without so much as sustained eye contact with a human being and here he was, with the man who broke the curse- of all people. Disgusting- a predatory monster you are! He searched him for more bruising or pain and found that he was- apart from his obvious injuries- in good health. “Eating alright? Good appetite?”  
“Yes. Actually, I wanted to ask what the delicious sweet bread is that comes in the morning.”  
“Chocolate chip muffins.”  
“We don’t have those where I’m from.”  
“Muffins, or chocolate?”  
“Either.”  
“How unfortunate! I’ll send something special for you tomorrow, if you like the chocolate chips wait ‘til you’ve had chocolate cake.”  
“That sounds…absolutely delectable. “ Unintentionally, their eyes met and lingered, John’s hand on his chest frozen- pinned in place by the striking gaze. John licked his lips. They both blushed slightly, turning back to the exam quickly.   
“Do you…do you do all of the cooking here, John?”  
“I do..”  
“You’re quite the chef.”  
“Thank you. It’s a good distraction. Meditative, almost.”  
Sherlock pictured him in the kitchen, sleeves pinned back, busying himself with pots and pans of varying scrumptious dishes. A dash of something here, an estimation of something else there. A cloth draped over one broad shoulder. Not needing a recipe or being too precise- just running on instinct and confidence. Effortlessly conjuring forward something so full of flavor and richness. His mouth waters at the thought of some of the things John had prepared for him. Operating with skilled hands and the kind of knowledge that’s so inherent, so deep down, it’s more than natural. More than easy.   
He remembers an incident from a few years back. During his apprenticeship, one day he believed himself alone in his tutor’s house. He picked up his violin, hoping to clear his mind and find a pattern in a challenging case. He played loosely, allowing his mind to wander over the case and his hands over his instrument. He played without direction or focus, deep in thought. He didn’t hear a younger deputy detective enter the home, dropping off and picking up files for Lestrade. He turned upon feeling suddenly not alone, finding the deputy a bit agape at him.   
That had been the beginning of a short affair in which they spent evenings and late nights together. His host had never set any sort of ‘rules’ regarding things like this. He figured, though, after finding his brother at the breakfast table many nights a week there likely would be no protest. During the course of their first night together, the deputy had told him the way he played and the way he were similar in ways. He wondered if John cooked like he…  
Next, John had him resume the same position he was in last night. “I’ll be treating your spine with a spell that will correct any misalignments. “ He was grateful for the opportunity to lie on his stomach.   
John warmed his hands by the fire again before slowly running each finger down Sherlock’s spine, from the base of his skull to his tailbone. He chanted in a language that Sherlock recognized from his studies of healing magic.   
Realign and return once more  
Back to where you were before  
Repeating the action ten times, once with each finger, the procedure was slow going. Sherlock hoped the slight chill in the air would explain away the slight shivers and rising hairs on his arms and neck. By the end, both had become somewhat entranced; John in his healing, and Sherlock in the feeling of being touched and cared for again in such a close manner.   
John spoke quietly, his voice was unclear and far away, “Well, um…that’s it for this evening. Rest well.”  
“Thank you.” He did in fact sleep quite well.   
The days passed in monotony. He was afraid to leave the chambers, despite knowing that John was about. Who knows how the dragon would take to seeing his newest prisoner walking about so comfortable? Besides, John was sending him delicious chocolate desserts each night- cakes, cookies, and pies. Even a hot drink made from chocolate. And after just the first session with the doctor, he had begun already to feel stronger. But with each passing night, he was closer and closer to his old self.   
On the third night, John treated the wounds on his skin. “How does your spine feel?”  
“Much better, I slept more easily.”  
“Great, that’s…that’s a relief.” You did it, selfish monster. He’s here and scared and in pain and losing sleep because of you. John had been tortured by his regret for his actions, and the drawing out of Sherlock’s healing For days. And long, tearful nights. Losing him will surely be agony, but keeping him here like this was not much better. Still, he continued.   
“This,” John said, holding a vile of clear liquid, “Will clean out any bacteria so I can heal the wounds.”  
He had his patient sit facing away from the fire for good light. As he dabbed the liquid on his skin, though, Sherlock began to feel some evident discomfort.   
“It’s alright, I can-“ but the pain must have worsened, because suddenly he was curled in, with his face in his hands. He stifled a whimper, shaking and shuddering.   
John spoke frantically, eyes wide. “Oh, alright…This happens sometimes if a patient is allergic to the ingredients. Just try to relax for a moment, I’ll get some water to wash it away.”  
John returned quickly with a warm, wet cloth. He began swiping at the liquid gently, taking it off as quickly as possible. Sherlock started to unfurl himself, as a harsh wave of guilt came over John. His patient’s face was covered in hot tears.  
Comforting a patient can sometimes be difficult, especially for doctors with empathy like his. It broke protocol, but John couldn’t help wrapping Sherlock in a gentle hug with arms around his shoulders, careful to avoid his wounds. “I’m sorry, had I known you would react like that I wouldn’t have-“  
“I know, I know. It’s not your fault. I should have just waited, it would have been fine,” he mumbled into John’s neck.   
You told him this would be painless. He trusted you, and now you’ve hurt him even more than you already had.  
“No, Sherlock,” John pulled away, meeting his eyes seriously. “No, don’t ever ignore pain like that for the convenience of others, understood? Especially your doctor.”  
He nodded meekly.  
“And I’ll have you know that in cases where a patient is allergic to that,” he gestured to the vile on the side, “It can’t just be toughed out. Had you not said anything it would have burned you quite badly.”  
“Oh.”  
John patted his shoulder gently, going to inspect for any damage. “We got lucky, it looks alright. I have a backup solution, I’ll need to draw you a bath though. Wait here.” As he set about making the bath, John wondered about the prince and his reaction to the pain. What must he have been taught to make him believe he should try to ignore something like that? Who must have instilled such a belief? He considered the pressures put on a future monarch. What else had Sherlock put himself through for the convenience of others? His heart ached at the thought. He adds a little extra something- essence of a peculiar plant he had discovered growing on the mountainside years ago- for an even more intensely relaxing experience.   
John returned a few seconds later to fetch a round item from his bag. He showed it to Sherlock, “This is a much gentler treatment. You’ll have to soak in the tub for a while, but it never fails. Come here, watch this,”  
He followed John to the tub, which was full with warm water. John put the object in his hand. It felt odd, like a compacted ball of fine rock. It glinted in the candle light.   
“Put it in and watch,” John instructed. Sherlock bent down and released the item into the bath. He felt it fizz in his hands, dissolving quickly. He let go and watched as it sank to the bottom, filling the tub with a green and blue swirling of colors. Soon the room smelled of eucalyptus and rain.   
“Soak in this for a few moments, then I’ll come back to start the rest of the treatment.”   
John left, pulling the door shut behind him. Through the adjoining fireplace, Sherlock could see him walking around, preparing something in the next room. He removed his robe and sank slowly into the water. The ball of fizz had made the water too opaque to see his legs through, but he felt it soothe his scars as he sank in further, so he decided to trust it.   
As promised, John returned a few moments later with a different vile. This time, the contents were green to match the medication in his bath water. “Alright, this gets dabbed onto your scars, and then you get to relax in here for half an hour.”  
Sherlock leaned forward, allowing John to dab gently at the scars and wounds on his back. And although the water hid his lower half, and this was nothing John hadn’t seen of him before, being undressed like this felt immensely nerve-wracking. With his knees to his chest and his arms around his legs, he tucked his chin and tried not to shake. This man is a doctor, thinking about him like that is completely reprehensible.   
When John finished, he asked Sherlock how he felt. “Does it still hurt?”  
“No, feels wonderful,” he said, now relaxed back against the tub. “Thank you, John.”  
John couldn’t help but to feel weak-kneed at the sight of him, sprawled and relaxed, warm in the bath with his blue-green eyes shining in the warm light contrasted by a light blush high on his cheeks and across his chest. He looks like that because of you, John thought, before remembering that he was also here because of you.  
“Of course, Sherlock. That’ll be it for this evening. “ John turned, casting his eyes down and gathering his items with an air of resignation. He hung around to ensure his patient got out of the bath safely and didn’t fall asleep. But he did leave as soon as Sherlock was safely out of the tub.   
For the past few nights, he had been seeing John in his dreams. Until that point, they had been mundane, or even too odd to draw any meaning from. But the night after John held him, and drew him a bath, his dream was quite clear. He was in the bath once more, though this time John had joined him. In the firelight, they were warm and quiet together. Sharing kisses and holding hands, they spoke quietly together. The inebriated feeling of being in one another’s presence in such a way followed him into wakefulness.   
On the fourth night, John inspected his work and inquired about how his patient was feeling. “After last night I’ve not had any pain.” And I can barely look you in the eye.   
“That’s excellent, Sherlock. You’re making great progress.”  
John scanned him for any residual scarring or bumps, but all that remained were a few darker bruises.   
“I’m going to press on some of these places, tell me if anything hurts.”  
He poked about, finding that his patient still had some residual discomfort in a few of the darker bruises. When he pressed down on his shoulders, however, Sherlock’s face winced in pain.   
“I can fix that,” John said, lightening up the touch on his upper arms. He went to his bag and took out an item which appeared to be something like a hot water bottle. It rolled around in his hands, filled with some kind of liquid.   
“This is a freeze pack. I’ll enchant it here in a moment, and you can hold it on your shoulders. It freezes the area deeply, allowing the magic to set in and heal any breaks or reset any muscles or pulled nerves. It’s quite intense though, so I’ll need you to bundle up and sit with me by the fire. Put your pajama top back on and bring that throw blanket on the bed over here. Wrap your self in it, but let your shoulders be bared. You may need to undo a button or two. “  
Sherlock did up half the buttons on his top and wrapped himself in the throw as instructed. He went and sat on the hearth and waited for John. He watched as the doctor held the pack out in his hands, and with a nearly indiscernible motion of one hand, the thing was suddenly solid. He walked over to Sherlock and placed it slowly onto his exposed skin. He began to understand what was so potent about the effects of this item. His whole body felt a chill when it made contact with his shoulders and neck. He was grateful for the precautions- otherwise he’d already be shivering.   
“This needs to be in place for only a few short moments, but as the time continues, you’ll feel colder and colder. When it’s over, I recommend a hot bath- you’re not in danger of hypothermia, but it will feel quite similar.”  
As the long minutes ticked on, he began to shiver. John sat on the hearth with him, and reached for his teapot, pouring him a hot cup. Soon though, his hands were shaking too hard to hold it. John, ever helpful, raised the cup for him, helping him to drink carefully. His shaking hands rested around the cup in his lap. John reached out and cupped them in his larger hands, helping to stop the quivering.   
At long last the chill suddenly vanished. The doctor removed the dreadful thing, and rose once more to draw him another bath. This time there were bubbles, and a relaxing scent meant to help his tight muscles unwind. He returned to the hearth and took the cup from his hands. Sherlock needed help to stand, and his hands were too cold to undo his own buttons.   
The doctor helped him into the bath once his pajamas were out of the way. John made a specific point to respect the privacy of his patient, despite wanting to satiate his curiosity. John brought him his tea, along with the pot, and poured him a new cup of hot tea. Sherlock warmed his hands under the water as the doctor helped him drink.   
“Are you feeling any better?”  
“Do you mean the temperature, or my shoulders?”  
“I was inquiring about the cold but I’ll take a response regarding either.”  
“Yes. Thank you.”  
“Of course.”  
“John, I don’t know what I would do without you. You’re quite a skilled healer. We could use you around at the…well.” The man sighed, frustrated. “Any ideas regarding how the ‘master’ plans to ‘deal with me’?”  
“He hasn’t said, I’m sorry. He refuses to speak about it.” Liar! You horrid creature, keeping him here. He could have left days ago! You didn’t deserve to have the curse broken, look how you treat him!  
Sherlock sighed once more, looking pensively into the fireplace. “Have you ever tried to escape?”  
“I have. Many times. I’m bound here though- no matter what, I can’t leave.”  
“Oh, John. I’m sorry-I didn’t realize. I thought you were just here as a captive, I didn’t realize you were cursed too.”  
“It’s alright, really. Don’t worry about it. I have what I need, I’m as comfortable as one could hope to be.”   
“But surely you get lonely. “  
“Of course- you’ve heard me chattering away during our sessions, haven’t you?” They chuckled together.   
“It’s not often talked about, loneliness. When people talk of sadness, or agony, usually it’s disease or famine, or war. Being alone in a world, even surrounded by others, and not having anyone to speak to. Not really, anyway- no one to share with, or cry with. No one to feel safe with. It must be one of the greatest ways to suffer.”  
John found that he could no longer look at Sherlock. Which went unnoticed; the other man still faced down, studying his body, not visible under the dark waters.   
“Right. Exactly right…” John’s face was shocked. He had never considered that someone like the prince- with all of his servants, and his family, his kingdom full of adoring citizens- could understand that. He knew what he had to do. If I tell him to leave late tomorrow night, perhaps I’ll be too deep in sleep to have to watch him go. He swallowed the tears just perched to spill over his eye lashes and turned to face Sherlock again.   
“Sherlock, you’re healed enough to…if you go tomorrow night, when the clock strikes for the first complete hour of the day, you should be able to leave without a problem.”  
“Are you intending to distract him for me?”  
“I’ll ensure he’s not able to harm you. “  
“What about you?”  
“Like I said, don’t worry about me. You’ve got a life ahead of you, and duties to your people.“ You actually stand a chance of defeating that loneliness, and I refuse to be the reason you don’t.  
As the sun set on his fifth full day of captivity, though, his stomach felt heavy with the knowledge that he must risk his life and attempt to escape. He had duties to thousands of people, he had a task to complete, and, despite the reprieve from all of that, despite feeling more welcome here than in his childhood home, he had to return.   
His bow was taken, or perhaps lost amongst the chaos on the mountain. There was, of course, no weaponry simply lying about, so the prince decided he must escape without protection, trusting John to stand between him and the dragon. He indulged in one final luxurious bath, opting to enjoy a glass of the same mulled wine he had found comfort in the first night. John…to leave him here will be unbelievably painful. He resolved then to return home and rally help- his act of service to the kingdom could be to free the gifted healer. Perhaps he could even help the dragon, somehow.   
He dressed again in the clothing he had arrived in, which he found freshly cleaned and properly atoned to in his wardrobe. He waited, with agonizing fear, until the sun had been set for many hours. He assumed- he hoped, rather- that the beast keeping him here was not nocturnal. Then finally, when he heard the clock on his wall chime for the first hour of the day, he crept out.


	4. Cursed

The sconces along the corridor, as well as the grand fireplace below, illuminated the dwelling in a soft warmth which would feel comforting if not for the circumstances. Despite trusting John’s word that he would be safe this evening, fear still fermented in his stomach for the entire day prior to his escape. He crouched low, behind the half wall, and stepped lightly down the what must be hundreds of stone stairs. The steps were not steep- in fact he found he could take a few short strides each time before descending onto the next one. But he had to be slow; in the cavernous room, even small noises were doomed to echo in what felt like explosive reverberations.   
Passing each set of wooden doors was an added obstacle. As each new set approached, he felt for certain that death waited in giddy anticipation to reach out and seize him; a child’s game to the predator and the ultimate gamble to his prey. Passing each set caused an internal celebration akin to that of surviving an experience in which one was guaranteed to perish.   
It surely must be daylight by now, he though as the end of the staircase approached. He refused to look back until he reached the bottom. The last set of doors approached, and the bottom of the stairs was visible. Having seen out when he first opened the door from his chambers, he knew that the beast wasn’t below in the cavern. His heart jumped at the knowledge that one of three things was true; either he had passed the hiding place of the creature already (putting it behind him in a perfect position to attack), the remaining set of double doors housed the creature and his escape may very well be seconds from a violent end. Or finally, that the creature had entered the cavern out of sight from one of the rooms during his descent, and was now waiting to greet him at the bottom. He took one final breath before walking past the last of the doors.   
A sudden noise startled him so deeply, Sherlock found himself on the ground having tipped backwards and caught himself on his hands. Luckily, whatever the noise was had been loud enough to cover any thwack of skin meeting stone (or perhaps any small shrieks that may have slipped out). He stilled on the stone steps listening, and realized the noise was the sound of a piano being played.   
When he was able to overcome the shock, he came to the conclusion that either John or the dragon must be playing. Having seen the monster before, with its paws and talons large enough to hold his entire body comfortably in one spindly palm, his best wager was on John. Was this some kind of tranquility spell, keeping the beast asleep? He peered around the banister cautiously, still unsure of the exact whereabouts of the creature.   
He was surprised to find that a large area surrounding the piano was engulfed in a thick white smoke. He still wanted to assume that the player was John, but the fear and caution in his veins begged him to be sure before revealing himself. The player continued, with skill that was impressive for a human, but would be astounding for a dragon. The tune was not one he could recognize, but the player knew it well. The music was melancholy, and going by the white color of the Heartstring Fog like a white flag at the end of a long battle, it was a song of surrender. Rich, moving chords and a melody which felt like a slow river, running softly through familiar lands. Whatever the player was feeling, they were no stranger to it.   
As white fog filled his vision, the listener, now crouching on the last step, was taken back in his memories to the first hunting trip he had taken with his father. The older man had waded into a river which, to his inexperienced companion, seemed shallow and safe. But once submerged, he found that the water hit his shorter frame much higher, and the current was unexpectedly strong. He was swept away, clinging to the surface and shouting with fright.  
His father had pulled him up easily, setting him safely on the banks. The young prince felt failure and shame creeping in, but his father simply wrapped his son in his coat. The experience often flooded his mind in times like these, when he realizes there is so much yet he does not know.   
As the player progressed, he filled the room with the white fog of his Heart Skill. Thick, white smoke enveloped the hidden prince, and he feared that escape would now be impossible. The idea of finding his way through the room undetected without sight frightened him immensely, and thus, he froze to the banister, clinging like an anchor to the bottom of the sea.   
The playing continued for only a short while. The song ended quietly, with a final decrescendo. The fog dissipated slowly, and the room was quiet again with the soft sounds of the fire. He dared a quick look at the player and found that a man was sitting at the piano, his figure only a silhouette between smoke and fire. He was contemplating something with elbows on knees and head in hands. His head was bowed slightly, with shoulders hunched and the occasional scratch to the face or scraping back of hair. Sherlock watched him for long moments, not sure whether or not now was the time to show himself. The man was far away across the room, but he could see slicked, silver hair, smart, rather formal wear, and, as one hand smoothed a long stroke through his hair, he saw a somewhat bony, veiny hand. An elder, by no means. But a sure wager, his senior by five or seven years. John, for certain.   
Sherlock found himself rising slowly, unsure of how to proceed. He didn’t have to consider for long though; the man spoke quietly in a measured tone, but loud enough to hear clearly. “I’d have thought you would be long gone by now” Sherlock crossed the room quietly, looking about suspiciously.   
“John, I- I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand. Was that a spell to keep the dragon at bay?”  
“There is no dragon. Not any longer. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’ve been keeping you here far too long.”  
“I don’t understand,” Sherlock whispered. “You were keeping me-?“  
“I was.”  
“But now, you’re…”  
“I cannot keep you here anymore. Return to your kingdom and tell them the beast has been slayed. I won’t be a burden any longer.”  
Suddenly the air felt thick despite being clear of smoke. Sherlock struggled for air, for clarity, for any sort of grip on the current situation. John stood, walking calmly to the chairs by the fire. He leaned over for a brief moment, then came up with a short glass and a decanter. The glass clinked softly as the man poured himself a drink, taking a long pull on the dark liquid and draining his glass. He turned halfway, still silhouetted by the fire.  
His face was set, but not angry. Squared jaw, lifted chin, and careful eyes. Dark, blue eyes rimmed in yellow and orange. Sherlock could partially see his face now, immediately seeing that he was quite distraught behind the mask, in fact.   
Sherlock looked towards the tunnel leading out, recalling the mote and the treacherous conditions. The man noticed, filling his glass again and sitting once more at his piano. “You will find furs suited to the weather near the exit. Follow the path right, after a short while you’ll come to a river leading down the mountain. It looks deep, and near frozen. This is intentional- the waters are an illusion, and behind the spell are man made steps kept warm with the magic. You’ll find them steep, but manageable, and your journey down should be far quicker than the time it took you to ascend. Your horse may or may not still be tied where you left it- if not, the woods are full of hidden cottages owned by friendly subjects who I am sure would love to play host to their future king. “  
“But please, what-?”  
“Go, I said!” The shout echoed off the walls, and for a human man, the sound was startlingly big. Sherlock fled, not wanting to take further chances with his life. He found the furs and the steps where they were said to be and began to climb down the mountain. He didn’t get far before the sound of playing and the slow-moving white smoke seeped out, as if taking a final look at him.

 

Returning to the place where the party had tied their horses, the prince found no sign of his steed. Likely, the horse was returned to the palace when the party fled. The prince wondered what the palace and kingdom must be thinking. They probably assumed he was dead; the last he was seen, his body was being carried off into a mysterious dwelling by an enormous dragon.   
He wandered for several hours, too shaken to set up camp. But as the blackness of night became early morning, with electric blue light illuminating the sky in the distance beyond cool fog, beyond trees silhouetted in black, he saw lights in the windows of a large cottage about a quarter of a mile off the main trail. Recalling John’s words, he decided to seek shelter.  
The cottage was white with green shutters and thick vines of wisteria and rose bushes crawling up and along the brick. The roof, a matching green, was thick with plants of all kinds arranged in a clever way so as to water more efficiently. Plants were arranged in neat rows along the roof, which was at a slant. He could see a system of pipes which released water at the top level, allowing it to run down the slant and collect again in a gutter, which ran off into plants near the ground.   
Gardens covered the property in a labyrinth of spirals, all leading to the main house. Benches, fountains, ponds, sheds, trees and sculptures popped up here and there, and although the property was a strange sight indeed he felt immediately calm upon entering the grounds. The smell of fresh lilac, rose, honeysuckle, lavender, and other herbs he could not identify greeted him quietly as he maneuvered the complex path to the door.   
The cottage was built with three floors and many windows, each lit with a small candle. It was large, but not intimidating; despite the lack of simplicity, it felt like a home. White curtains blew in and out of the windows, giving a soft, breathing effect to the place. He approached cautiously, hoping to avoid startling the inhabitance. It was, after all, only just daybreak.   
Reaching for the knocker, though, he was unable to knock even once before the door opened quietly. Startled, he jumped back, almost expecting to need to defend himself. But the door opened wide, and a tall, kindly woman beckoned him in. The woman had long, silver hair- he was positive he spied patches of dark blue underneath. She was not young, for certain; but she carried with her the youth that comes with having lived a long, interesting, and magical life. She was dressed in emerald green robes, which covered her feet and hands, if she let her arms down fully. The material was unlike anything he had seen, despite having been clothed by the finest seamstresses for his near thirty years.  
The material was embroidered with flowers, reminiscent of those he saw outside; but the flowers and stems seemed to move a bit more freely than perhaps regular movement would incite. When she stood still, he saw that they moved gently on their own as if blown by some invisible breeze. And at her feet, an orange tabby circled, rubbing its head at her knees and staring gently at the prince, as if knowing he was a friend.   
“Please, your highness- come in! Let me make you some breakfast. ”  
“My apologies, ma’am, I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”  
“Not at all. I was up already- this place doesn’t tend to itself, despite my best spellwork.”  
He entered, noticing first the smell of freshly brewed tea. The rooms were dark still, lit here and there with softly dancing candles and the slow-brightening sky, still a dark blue. Despite the darkness, and the unfamiliar territory, he felt undeniably safe. The woman of the house welcomed him through into the kitchen, where she poured him a cup and sat a plate of fresh eggs, bread, and fruits in front of him. She stood at her oven, humming quietly and going about her business.   
She tended to whatever was brewing in the large black pot; watered the many hanging and standing plants in this and surrounding rooms. She fed the tabby, whom she referred to as Billy, with a saucer of milk. Finally, she refreshed her own cup, and plopped into the seat in front of him at the small wooden table.   
“You’ve been on quite the journey.”  
“I have indeed. I don’t plan to be much trouble; perhaps just this,” he lifted his cup in a toasting motion, “and a quick rest if you don’t mind. I’m on my way back to the palace and I find myself without a horse.”  
“Nonsense, you’re of no trouble sir. This place is your home as it is to many others. Use it as you need. Eat your fill, take a bath. I’ll wash your clothes for you- you’re drenched with rain and shivering to the bone. We’re mostly full at the moment, but I’ve got one spare bed. You’re welcome to rest for as long as you need.”  
“I don’t know how to thank you for your hospitality. I’m baffled at your kindness, to tell you the truth.”  
“This place- you don’t know what it is yet, do you?”  
“No, ma’am.”  
“This is the house of the Coven!” She stated gleefully, clasping her hands in front of her mouth, as if learning this for the first time herself. “This is where witches and wizards, and creatures of all kinds- human and otherwise- come when they’re down on their luck, or need a place to reconnect to the circle. You’ve picked the perfect place to seek shelter, your highness. “  
“Please, call me Sherlock. “  
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I don’t suppose you know the story of what your great- grandfather did for us nearly a century ago?”  
“No, I’m sorry.”  
“He saved us. All of us; witches and wizards alike. Our kind was being persecuted by a terrible band of dark magic users. They wanted to rid the Earth of our kind so as to gain control of every kind of magic. But your great-grandfather was brave and unselfish. He lead a band of absolutely ruthless justice seeking magic users, they worked for tireless years taking so much grief and defeat and misery, but persevering nonetheless. It took them ages, but finally they defeated the vigilantes. They called themselves Mori Arti. I don’t know if you speak ancient Umqran, but it translates to-“  
“The art of death.” A silence passed between them like a shared moment of grief.   
“Yes. So without him, not only would we all be gone, but this place-“ she gestured, “Which has served and saved so many others, would not exist.”  
He ate his fill and bathed slowly. Working hot water into his aching bones and muscles, stiff from the cold. The witch offered him a bar of soap which she explained would ease any pain he may be feeling. The bar was a pearly white color, with a fizzing effect that created colorful bubbles in the bath. It helped immensely. It reminded him of John.   
When he was done, he wrapped himself in a dry towel. He found his clothing, clean and dry, hanging by the fire outside the lavatory. As he reached for the garments, he heard a small chorus of giggles from a few rooms over. Peering cautiously down the hall, he spotted a few younger witches and wizards sitting around the table, watching him through eyelashes and fingers, spread over eyes.   
“Enough! Enough of that! Be respectful to our guest, you’ve no idea the things his family has done for you! Oh- Sherlock, I’m sorry dear. Seems these three-“ she swatted a towel at the table vaguely “haven’t learned much from me in the way of manners yet!”  
“Quite alright, ma’am. We were all young once.” He enters the lavatory again, suddenly reminded of John, and how he felt looking at him without John’s knowledge. His eyes…his hands…beautiful, and sorrowful. He entered the kitchen once more, and was shown upstairs by the lady of the house, whom he was told to call Mrs. Hudson. She led him down the hall, tabby in tow, to a room with a bed and a few shelves of books. The accommodations were quite different, he thought, but here he knew he was safe for sure.   
He slept for what must have been hours; when he finally found the witch, it was mid afternoon, and she was leading a group of people- young, old, human, fae, giant and dwarven- in a sort of meditative chant outside in the gardens. Not wanting to disturb, he helped himself to a bowl of vegetable stew, which he found cooling in a pot on the stove.   
He walked aimlessly about the house, studying the shelves of books and unfamiliar items. The paintings (some in frames, some done right on the walls) and dried flowers, the hanging plants, and the unique furnishings. The floors creaked, the fires popped, and the breeze blew in and out as it had before. His eye was suddenly drawn to a book which looked familiar. It was small and slim, and covered in black leather. Inside, the pages were filled with hand written notes and drawings. The book nearly didn’t close, clearly used and worn and maybe even water damaged at one point. Turning it over in his hands, he finally recognized it as being almost a twin to the one he had found on the shelves that night in the Mountain.   
“Ah, how unexpected! You’ve found my Book of Curses.”  
He looked at her with concern, holding the item outstretched a bit more as if it may catch fire in his hands. “No, no, not to worry dear! Let me explain! A book of curses is a collection of notes gathered and recorded by victims of curses which, all on its own, finds curse victims, hoping to help them. It’s a spell as ancient as curses themselves. The collection updates with new information as it is noted, and curse victims, cured or not, always have the most current information on every type of curse cast. It helps us keep up to date on how to help others, or even ourselves for those unlucky enough to still be under their curse’s effects.”  
“I’ve seen one of these before. Just the other night.”  
“That’s quite interesting my dear. I don’t mean to alarm you, but, well- one of these is in the home of every creature who has suffered a curse. To find them, but not own one yourself usually means that you are fated to love a victim of a curse.”  
He must have looked absolutely awestruck. The kind witch brought him to sit with her, and with a snap of her fingers, a cart with fresh tea wheeled over to them. “Why don’t you tell me a bit more about what you’ve seen. Maybe I can clear some things up for you.”  
He told her the tale of the quest to defeat the dragon, being captured and held against his will. The kind doctor who healed him, and somehow turned out to be the dragon himself. Sherlock spoke of his kind nature and gentle, capable hands. His desire to see him better, despite also holding him captive. There was so much that remained unanswered. Why did John keep him there? Why does he insist upon staying? Can he be helped?   
“Oh my…deary, that is quite a tale. But it explains a great deal. I’m afraid news arrived a few days ago that I should share with you, dear. I wanted to wait until after your rest, and now seems as good a time as any. While you were away, when the curse broke…well, there are several effects of the breaking of such a curse, and they began taking form.“ She flipped thoughtfully through the book, clearly looking for something specific. Finally landing on a page, she showed him the book with joy, “The Prophecy of the Dragon”, she read aloud. “A rare and difficult curse to break, this particular spell turns its victims into a fearsome dragon, forcing it to live in isolation for fear of being hunted. In addition, this curse is often coupled with Thorn Magic, which incriminates the victim in the eyes of its kingdom. The victims can only break their curse if they find their fated love, a task often impossible, even for uncursed creatures. Once the curse is broken, the victim will no longer be a beast, but their long-suffering soul, so used to isolation and hatred, almost never learns to accept the love they have found, despite its divine truthfulness. To our knowledge, no victim of this curse has ever recovered fully from its effects; as they may only be physically temporary, they are often permanent in the minds and hearts of their victim. It is worth noting that, while the physical curse remains unbroken, the victim is immortal, and once the curse is broken, they begin aging once more.” Below, several illustrations were depicted, all remarkably similar to the appearance of the beast he had known before. “And once the curse is broken, an immense amount of magic is released, often in many forms. That’s what I need to tell you about, my dear- the effects of your meeting have been rippling through the lands for many days. “  
“What sort of effects?”  
“Oh, my…to many to mention. Wildfires, floods, freak snow storms. “  
“Well- this cannot continue! I cannot be responsible for the demise of my people! How do I stop it?”  
“Oh no, no, no deary! Not to worry! This is just temporary! Listen on and you shall see. “ She picked up the book once more, reading again from the well broken spine and earmarked pages. “At the breaking of the curse, a final burst of Thorn Magic will be released, followed by a similar wave of good fortune. When the fated ones finally come together, the effects will be felt far and wide. Prosperity, peace and great joy will flood the homes and hearts of those within a large radius of their epicenter. The union will awaken a new era of love and light, which will permeate the lives of many around them. For the power of their love is so great, the truth of it so pure, they affect change which will last thousands of years.”  
They sat silently. Sherlock could not think of a single thing to say- how does one react to the knowledge of something so utterly jarring? This information shakes him to the core. Everything he expected from life, everything he thought about his destiny, his purpose, his future- this moment was paradigm shifting. But in all of its grandness, in the knowing that he has triggered possibly the greatest event in his kingdom’s history, in knowing that he held such power, what steeped most heavily in his mind was the realization that he and John were, in fact, inevitable.   
“So this man that I knew, he and I are meant to love one another?”  
“Oh believe me dear, he loves you. When love is fated like this, it’s instant. He will always love you, but in truth, he may never be able to show it. Surely you felt it too?”  
Sherlock considered shyly. He had known John only for a few nights. But he realized he had been fighting the truth; it had been instant.   
“I…what am I to do now? How do I stop the destruction?”  
“Well dear, I can’t tell you what to do. It says here that once union is reached, the shift begins. If I were you, I’d have to at least try to help him see that he can trust you. Love is beautiful and warming, but fated love- well, once it’s set in, if you fight it-“ The witch flicked an old tray of dead flower petals into the fire, fixing him with a warning look as they ignited.


	5. White Knight

The prince left on foot, armed this time only with a few items, rather than a bow and a team of knights. He was hoping to breathe life into the person, the man, who lived alone on Blue Mountain, rather than slaying the beast who haunted it. He found his way much easier this time, climbing the enchanted steps John had told him of a few nights prior. The wind was still bitter, even in the daylight, but he went forth with hope in his heart that, at the top, he would find something he had never dared allow himself to want.   
He tried desperately not to hear the sorrowing voices whipping about in the harsh winds. Trekking up and down the mountain had exposed him to this before, and he found it easier and easier to ignore. But one particular voice, one quiet, familiar one was sharp in his ear when it spoke his name. “Sherlock,” it cried softly. That was all it spoke; one word. But the pleading, the mourning- it served only to drive him forward with greater determination.   
As he reached the landing and made his way to the hidden entrance, the sun was setting. Through the blowing white and blue, he could see the forest below, and the sun, setting behind the other mountains adjacent to his viewpoint. Both awash in golden, dancing flames with the onset of autumn. Change, he thought, was ever constant; nothing is permanent. Not even three hundred years of solitude.   
As he entered, he took care to replace the furs he had taken on his way out last time. Not wanting to startle the man, but not knowing how to delicately announce one’s presence in a secluded mountain cavern, he lingered in the dark for a few moments. But it seemed he wouldn’t have to worry for long.   
“I know you’re there.” John’s voice proclaimed, quietly. “I know you’re there, but I can’t for the life of me imagine why. “  
“Oh John. I’m here in search of peace. I’m unarmed, and well aware of my intrusion; for such a burden, I beg your forgiveness. Please, sir- allow me to explain. You don’t owe me the chance, but you deserve to know the truth.”   
The other man welcomed him in from the shadows with a wave from across the room. The prince approached slowly; not with caution, but out of respect. He sat when and where instructed, and took with grateful hands the glass of whiskey he was offered. As his boots dried and his bones warmed by the fire, he looked into the eyes across from him, straight on for the first time in nearly a week.   
Never one for cliché’s, the prince resisted the thought creeping into his weary mind- that something just felt…as it should be. His fears eased, and his body sank back, inch by inch. When he was ready to speak, he did so with renewed tranquility, and the trust that if he spoke his heart, he would be heard. The prince told him about the witch, and her book of curses. He recounted finding the same book in the room upstairs, and confessed knowing what it means for a book like that to find someone like him, uncursed. He explained kindly, and with great dignity and respect for the man across from him, that he knew about his curse, and that it was now broken. And the implications of such an event.   
To his relief, the man did not react harshly. But he also did not react at all. He tucked the hand holding his empty glass under his chin and studied the flames- not ignoring, just contemplating. Finally, the prince said, “I am not here to force you into anything. In knowing about the curse, I also know of its effects. To coheres something like this would be unethical, and inauthentic. I just ask of you, knowing this is no small thing, for the chance to show you myself, and my intentions. Such an opportunity, for a fated connection like this- well, it happens even less than once in a lifetime. And I can promise you, John, that I feel for you what you do for me. How could I not? From the moment you shook my hand I knew I was where I needed to be.“  
“Sherlock, I…” John turned away quickly, covering his face with one hand. He Shuddered and sniffled, trying desperately to keep his tears away. His voice was croaking and broken as he fought to speak. “I wouldn’’t even know how to begin to trust you. I’ve been so alone, for so long. What contact I did have were instances of brutal and forceful attempts on my life. And before that, I leant my trust to one wrong man. That’s how I got here; one horrid, evil person who asked for my guidance, used my help to harm others, then cursed me when I no longer served a purpose. “  
“I…I don’t yet know how to give you, or even promise you, what it is that we’re supposed to cultivate together. So how could I hope to deserve what I’ve been so clumsily granted? But I want to learn. I won’t pretend that my life even compares to yours, but I know what it is to be alone in your heart so deeply that you lock away anything too real or painful for your own sanity. I know about wanting for so long that you can’t want anymore. I know about expectations, and assumptions, and meeting people who think they know everything there is to know, people who refuse to see anything else, people who don’t even care to inquire before passing judgement. I know about putting up walls, and wanting so badly for someone to break them down, but also being terrified that that may very well happen one day. I know about wanting, and fearing, the same thing. So at the very least, I think we can agree upon these things, and perhaps hope to move forward. I came here as a prince, trying to do what I thought my kingdom required of me. In doing so, I ignored myself, and you, in favor of a mask. But there’s a man underneath, and as much as he’s begging for me to keep him hidden, he’s also begging me to rip away the façade. Please, let me show you my heart, knowing in yours that this is terrifying for me as well. I think we deserve it.”   
“Let’s say then, for curiosity’s sake, that I decide to trust you. What exactly does that entail? Obviously you’ll need to return at some point to be king, I can’t imagine you expect for me to follow. “  
“I don’t know. You’re right, I don’t expect you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. You’ve spent enough time living your life in a way that doesn’t serve you. But if what I know of fated love is true, even if I do want to be king, leaving you behind would destroy us both. If you want to know what I really think we should do, I’ll tell you.”  
John’s face was still covered with tears, reflecting brightly with the firelight. “I’m open to all suggestions, given our circumstances.”  
“I think we should hide away here for as long as we possibly can. Let things settle before we go stirring them further. Whatever we decide, I think we both agree that this is getting stronger; whatever we do, it will have to include the both of us, together. But for now, I think I’d like to just be Sherlock- not a prince, not a future king. Just a man that’s learning, just like you are.”

 

Late that night, the two lay side by side at the top of the long winding corridor, looking into the clear night sky. The moon and starlight lit their faces brightly, as the distant warm glow of the fire below radiated throughout the cavern.   
“It’s as if the dots were being connected all along. Even my most devastating days, even rock bottom was a key point on the journey here,” John says one night as they lie on their backs looking up through the glass ceiling.   
“What do you mean?”  
“I mean if I had never made the mistake of trusting Mori Arti, which got me here-“ he gestured at the cavern “I would never have been in a position to meet you. There may not have been a curse in the first place.”   
Sherlock leaned on his side, studying John’s face in the moonlight for a moment. Suddenly he remembered something Mrs. Hudson had revealed to him.   
“Mori Arti?”  
“Indeed. The ring leader, James, he’s the one who put me here. “  
“My great- grandfather, I didn’t know of this until I met the coven leader after I left here- he was the one who lead the knights that defeated them before he took the throne. But you…said you’d offered him your help? I thought you had been here for three centuries. Mori Arti was only defeated less than a century ago.”  
“It was long before I knew what he had planned to do, believe me. After he cursed me, he took the information he had asked for and used his new immortality to build an army of dark magic users. Which took some time- they’re not a common find. He told me his people, in another kingdom, were dying off. He needed a spell to heal them, and keep them alive while he, at the time claiming to be an alchemist, brewed a cure. I gave him my best healing and preservation spells. But once I learned he was using them to maintain and protect his army of, of monsters! Awful, horrid men they were! He…didn’t appreciate my attempts to report him.”  
“Oh John, I’m sorry. I had no idea…the pain that must have caused you, to be tricked into contributing to his genocide. “  
“I know it technically wasn’t my fault. But forgiving yourself for empowering something like that, it’s damn near impossible.”  
“I’m sure nobody would blame you. Especially not Mrs. Hudson- she’s the coven leader I spoke of. She knew me, and my story for that matter, before I told her. If you ever get to meet her, she’d see the truth.”   
“That’s comforting, actually. Thank you,” John said. They both paused briefly, exchanging a chaste but sincere kiss. Suddenly, they stopped, surprised by themselves. They hadn’t touched before apart from Sherlock’s treatments. It had happened in such a natural way that neither thought a thing of it, until they both had, just now. They kissed as if they had done so thousands of times before. No nervous, unsure energy. But once it happened it was as if the wind was knocked from their lungs. Sherlock’s startled and unsure expression met John’s wide, shocked eyes.   
“I, I’m sorry? If you…want me to be. If I should be.”  
John laughed warmly, bringing one hand to his face to stroke a cheekbone. “I’m not.”  
“Good, neither am I,” Sherlock said, taking John’s head in both hands and kissing him again with new depth. Sherlock’s hands felt perfectly anchored, with fingers tangled well within the gray and gold of John’s hair, even thicker than it appeared. The taller man leaned in further, combining their spaces into one. John’s hands fell softly to his waist, and although Sherlock hadn’t been too overwhelming, the soft touch brought his attention back to a more stable level, like a tide brought back down by the waning moon.   
Their kisses grew sweet; shorter, but full with gentle hands exploring faces and encircling arms; soft, broad circles across shoulders, and growing smiles. Mouths parted in favor of leaning foreheads together and stroking hands on soft cheeks. When John opened his eyes, he saw that Sherlock’s were still closed, and rimmed in tears. Not having to guess, he leaned in once more, taking his time to kiss his forehead, his temples, his eyelids, his cheeks, the space between eyebrows, drawn tight. The tip of a nose (with soft smiles and laughter) and finally, the lips, now with reassurance and comfort more than want.   
As if reading his mind, John said “I never knew it could be like this, either.”  
“It’s a good thing I didn’t know what I was missing. I’d have missed it terribly.”  
With John’s head tucked under his chin, Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, both breathing gently together. 

*************************************************************************************

John took him back down the stairs, showing him to the second set of doors from the bottom. “I may as well have you next door.”  
Opening the doors, they entered a suite very similar to the one Sherlock had stayed in. The only noticeable difference was the lack of evident chill in the air. He found that his perfectly selected clothing, the robe he so loved, the pipe and the teapot had all joined him once more.   
“Will this do?”  
“Certainly. Thank you John, I much prefer being down here near you.” John paced about, mostly watching Sherlock unpack his small satchel. He perched on the arm of one of the chairs by the fire, stood and began studying the books, walked to the window (despite the darkness and pulled curtains). As he turned awkwardly form the window hoping to find something else to distract himself with, he bumped into the other man.   
“John,”  
“Sorry, I’ll-“ he gestured towards the door, walking backwards out of the room. Sherlock caught his wrist, leading him gently to sit on one side of the bed. John fought the blush rising on his cheeks. And neck, and under his collar…  
“You couldn’t overstay if you tried. You’re just as welcome here as I assume I’m…welcome in your bed chambers?”  
“Yes, of course!”  
“Good, see?”  
John continued to blush as Sherlock set about unpacking. A bar of soap from Mrs. Hudson which had so helped his aching muscles. Stationary and a quill pen, for any necessary correspondence with the palace. His violin, which John inquired about.   
“I’m a Heart Skilled musician as well. “ He slowed in his movements, setting the instrument carefully in one of the chairs by the fire. Turning to John, he walked back with caution. “That song you played. And the white smoke- I’ve never heard anything so heart wrenching. “  
“I was losing you. After hurting you, after delaying your departure. It was finally happening, and I was prepared never to see you again.”  
“I heard your voice out there. I heard you saying my name. John, I’m so sorry- I don’t ever want to see you like that again.”  
“The thought of hurting you again is-“  
“When did you hurt me?”  
“When I caught you from falling. Your back was so…”  
“You saved my life, John.” It began to occur to him that he hadn’t pushed Sherlock over the precipice, nor had he asked for the invasion in the first place.   
“But I did prolong your suffering. That healing could have been done in one night.”  
“I felt far, far better after the first treatment.” John looked severely unconvinced. “Truly.” Sherlock confirmed.   
“Wanting someone around after centuries alone, not to mention knowing what I was to you? It may not have been the most honorable thing, John, but look!” Sherlock took his hands, stroking gently over John’s upturned palms. “You are human. You’re a man, with flaws. And a heart. No monster would show such remorse.”  
They shared another kiss full of warmth and comfort. Sherlock returned to his satchel, removing the final item. Mrs. Hudson’s book, which he placed for safe keeping on the mantle.   
“Don’t be surprised if you wake up and that’s gone- they tend to return to whom they belong.”  
Don’t we all.

 

The early morning sun shone in under and around the heavy curtains of Sherlock’s bed chambers. The long, single ray which broke through the crack between the curtains drew itself boldly across the bed, connecting his midsection and John’s sleeping face in its warm beam.   
It hadn’t been intentional, but falling asleep with John next to him, and now- waking up beside him- it certainly felt right. Lying still in the warmth of the morning, and John, Sherlock felt peace akin to nothing he had known before. His chest rose and fell softly, skin soft and warm and colored vibrant gold by the soaking sunrays.   
Suddenly a sharp bang at the door startled both of them. John shot straight up, gasping in shock. They exchanged confused looks, wondering silently what that could have been. Before either could speak, another noise like the first rang through the cavernous room.   
“I’m guessing you don’t often get visitors?”  
“When I do it’s never good.”  
The wrapped quickly in their robes and made their way- barely-awake toes shocked by cold stones. Hopping over to the door, Sherlock- the knight, the protector- moved to open the door. As it creaked open, where he expected an attack, a young witch stood, broom and envelope in hand.   
“Good morning sir, good morning your highness. Sorry to disturb. I bring urgent news from the castle.” She extended the hand with the broom at first, before realizing her mistake and quickly swapping the two hands.   
Sherlock took the large envelope, stamped with the royal seal. He looked towards John for a moment, expressing just as much confusion as he found in his love’s furrowed brows. They both looked back, ready to ask questions, but the young witch was gone, off on her broom into the distant woods.   
He shut the door and turned towards John. “Did you see that?”  
“What, the odd witch on our doorstep? I’m glad you saw her too.”  
“No!” He flung open the door again. John braced himself for a gust of frigid air, but it never came. Instead, warm sunlight fell on his skin. John stepped out into the morning air. It was crisp, but warm. Like the first morning of spring, the snow was mostly melted around him, and the sun shone like a beacon of hope and approaching summer.   
As John explored cautiously, Sherlock read the letter. 

Your Majesty,  
I fear I must write to inform you of some tragic news. The King and Queen have passed suddenly- of what cause we are unsure. At this current time your presence at the castle is requested, as a coronation at the earliest possible hour is necessary. At this moment you are indeed the pre-coronated king, leaving you and your elder brother Mycroft in equal power.   
Once coronated, you will be king and your remaining task will need to be completed immediately. Under current law, parliament agrees that it is legally acceptable for you to take the crown despite the incomplete task due to the emergency at hand.  
A coach and team of guard awaits at the home of the Coven to bring you swiftly to the castle. Our deepest condolences,   
The Parliamentary Body of Divina

John turned beaming, the sun glinting in his hair and reflecting in his eyes. “This is amazing! I can’t begin to imagine why- what’s wrong?”  
Sherlock’s face was stoic and void of expression. As he re-read the letter, he did so aloud, enumerating the situation at hand. The two stared softly at one another, not sure how to act.   
“We were meant to stay here, together. For a long while. To better understand this situation, and get to know one another. To discuss how to go about approaching this, I- I don’t know…what to do, John.”  
“I’ll go with you.”  
“I can’t ask that of you.”  
“I know. Which is why I’m offering. I’ll go.”


	6. A Turn of Events

The two were ushered quickly into the carriage once they reached the coven house. There was no time for greetings or tea- John only saw Mrs. Hudson waving from the porch, her cat weaving lovingly through her legs. Their journey was quick, indeed. Another coach met them halfway so the first team could rest while the second one took over.   
At day break, the Prince was nudged awake by a guard. They were approaching the castle. As the silhouette of the enormous structure was lit from behind by the rising sun, its structures and familiar markings were blacked out, giving an ominous and uneasy feeling.   
The carriage slowed as it approached the gate. The gatekeep stopped them, which seemed odd-surely they were to be expected? And in a palace coach of all things. An inspection was called, requiring the weary travelers to exit the coach. Their few items were inventoried, and the identities of the Prince and guardsmen were verified quickly. Sherlock’s stomach flipped as the gatekeep approached him and John.   
“Honestly, what is this about? Who are you to call me into question?”  
“Apologies, your majesty. It’s not you we’ve got questions about,” he gruffled.   
“What, then?”  
“Who’s’e?”  
“His name is John, and he is my guest. You will let both of us through this instant.”  
“I don’t think I can do that.”  
“Oh? And who gave you the authority to-“  
“I did.” Mycroft stepped forward from behind the gate.  
“Brother mine.” The Prince snarled, disappointed by unsurprised. “I should have known you would use this opportunity to play parent. I’ll remind you this once that I am now your king, and that you chose to relinquish that title years ago.”  
“Actually, brother dear, if you will refer to the letter I know you received from Parliament, you will see that at the current time we are in equal power. And as partial king, I have suspicions about this companion you’ve strung along here today. As you’ve confirmed, this is Dr. John Watson, yes?”  
“Yes, and?” He looked over at John, attempting to remain unfazed. But in his eyes John saw the doubt and fear. He knew what was coming.  
“The last living fellow with said name on record was born over three hundred years ago, and found guilty of conspiring with a murderous band of criminals.”  
“This is no news to me, Mycroft. As it often happens you are once again not in possession of all information necessary to actually understand the current situation.”  
“That may be true. So I’ve arranged for a trial to be held. This-“ Mycroft gestured vaguely in John’s direction “John person will have his chance to prove his innocence of all crimes accounted for.”  
“All crimes?” John inquired.   
“Yes- at present you are accused of criminal conspiracy, kidnapping, one account of and attempted murder, and- oh yes. Two counts of regicide.”  
“What!? Regicide?”  
“Yes, didn’t you hear the unfortunate news about mother and father? Or were you too busy…elsewhere?”  
“I’m quite capable of keeping up, brother mine. I’ll thank you to speak to me as such. But what I don’t understand is how you’ve pinned all of this on John.”  
“Oh don’t play dumb, little brother. I see you’ve developed feelings for your captor. But surely you haven’t completely forgotten the circumstances which led you here in the first place? This is the man who held you captive after all, is it not?”  
“I was never captive.”  
“And he did cause your injuries in the first place, did he not?”  
“He was saving my life!”  
“Now now, let’s not have another meltdown. As I said, John will have his day in court. But until then, guards! This man is a danger to the kingdom. The dungeons should contain him well.”  
Mycroft snapped his fingers abruptly, prompting the guards to drag John off towards the castle. Two more men were needed to keep the Prince in control.   
Later that evening, chained to his bed, the Prince paced- or at least, as far as his shackles would allow- trying to make sense of things. Through his window he could see Blue Mountain in the distance, behind which the setting sun cast a halo, like a beacon of joy lost to the past.   
Lost in sorrow, the prince longed for his violin. He wanted nothing more than to play- to disappear into the music, let his hands move so his mind could breathe. In his state of misery, he began humming. Nothing notes, just whatever seemed to come up. He sat on the floor and let his head rest in his hands, humming quietly to himself. With his eyes closed and his head buried in his arms, he didn’t notice the smoke filling the room, or the light sprinkling of emerald dust beginning to rain, slowly heavier, around him. The dust became a downpour, and finally, a kind, distant voice shook him from his mind’s captivity.   
“Oh deary, I’m so sorry.”  
“Mrs. Hudson!?”  
“Shh, shh, don’t alert the guards.”  
“How did you get in?”  
“Well love, I’m not entirely sure. My best guess is transmutation. It’s rare, and few have been able to achieve it on purpose. But legend says when a miracle is needed between fated lovers, it will arise.”  
“They’ve got him imprisoned- Mycroft is accusing him of such awful things. None of it is true and I just- I have no idea what to do Mrs. Hudson.”  
Mrs. Hudson lifted his chin up from his hands and wiped at his tears.   
“Not to worry, my boy. I know what to do.”  
She closed her eyes and wrapped her hands around the shackles at his wrists. Exhaling deeply, the locks opened easily when she pulled them gently apart. Sherlock’s face was awestruck.   
“Waste no more time, we must go now.”

 

Mrs. Hudson pressed her ear to the door, listening carefully. When it was sure the coast was clear, they crept out into the dark castle passageway. The moon beamed in brightly through the large windows, illuminating the passages as if by daylight. They crept carefully behind pillars and through the shadows with the Prince leading the way.   
Rounding the corner at last, they found themselves in temporary safety. This passage was often unguarded and rarely ever used. Walking briskly down the passage, they came to what seemed to be only an old fireplace. Sherlock dug quietly through the soot and old logs before lifting a small trap door under the rubble.   
Their way lit only by a candle the Prince had grabbed from his nightstand, the two maneuvered carefully down a tight spiral staircase. The stairs were steep and crumbling, and heat could be felt through the thin wall as they passed behind other fireplaces currently in use. About halfway down, it occurred to him that they were passing directly behind the back wall of Mycroft’s bed chambers. As they passed down through the final floor and into the dungeons, the heat faded quickly into frigid air. Ice was hanging in stalactites from the ceiling so low they found themselves needing to duck while navigating the stairs.   
At last, they reached the bottom floor. Their feet hit cold dirt, spread roughly between cinder block walls dripping in ice buildup. How anyone survived down here was beyond him. Spurred on by this thought, he charged forward intent on finding John.   
They wound through a maze of walls, sure they had crossed over their own footprints more than once. Eventually, a sharp sound broke through the silence, followed by loud voices. As he began to run, Sherlock was tugged back.   
“Deary, you’ll get us found if you go that way.”  
“If it gets us closer to John that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Stay here if you feel unsafe, no one has a need to come this way. But I’m going on.”  
The Prince stepped forward, with more caution. He crept quietly around the corner, feet finally hitting concrete. A distant glow alerted him to a lit fire and a more actively traveled hallway. The sharp noise cut through the air again, this time more clearly. The noise snapped through the air again, and again. As he crept along the wall, it became more and more clear. He began to hear a secondary sound, following shortly after each snap. A low, sort of primal noise. Human.   
Snap, whimper. Snap, groan. Snap, shout.   
A whip.   
The Prince raced forwards down the dim hallway towards the noises, which were coming from a chamber with an open gate. On the far wall, a shadow was cast in the firelight. A tall guardsman, whipping madly in a downwards motion. The following protesting was always muffled, as if by a cloth gag.   
Bursting through the half open gate, the guardsman looked up in shock at the intruder. The Prince reached for his sword, recalling that it had been confiscated by his ‘equal power sharing’ brother. Sherlock stood firm regardless, ready to fight hand to blade if necessary.   
But he was stopped short when he realized the captive victim was not John. The guardsman spoke in an unsure voice.   
“I beg your pardon, your majesty. I was under the assumption you were being held-“  
“You beg my pardon only to follow it with disrespect?”  
“No, no sire I-“  
“Or did you really expect to be consulted on all decisions the crown makes?”  
“No sir.”  
“Good, then perhaps it is possible that I am in the right here, yes?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Now tell me who this man is and what his crime was.”  
“Sir, this man was caught stealing from the kitchens.”  
“So his punishment for hunger is a brutal beating? “  
“Was an order from your brother, sir. Just doing as told.”  
“For that I can’t quite fault you. Under my order, you will let this man go, and consult the both of us on all further similar punishments. If we are to both be kings we must both rule in accordance.”  
“Yes, your majesty.”  
“Keep this man here until I can speak with my brother. Send another guard for food and medical supplies. Patch him up and feed him, but do nothing else until you’ve spoken to both my brother and myself, do you understand?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
Once the guards cleared out, Mrs. Hudson emerged from the shadows.   
“We haven’t got long.”  
They set out down the next hall, searching each cell and finding most to be full. Finally, they happened upon a cell with a heavy wooden door. Peering through the small window, Sherlock could see John huddled in the far corner near a dwindling fire. He knocked sharply at the window, startling John. He shuddered to think what John had expected to meet his eye. Had they whipped him as well?   
John stood and raced to the door, meeting Sherlock’s eyes through the slit window.   
“Here, deary- I saw this hanging on the wall. It looked different from all the other keys, I figured it would be handy.”  
It took some rumbling of the key in the lock, but eventually the ancient door creaked open.   
“John,” the two embraced, fisting clothing tightly and locking arms around backs.   
“I thought I wouldn’t see you again before they…”  
“John, they’ll give you a trial. They have to.”  
“That’s not what the guards said.”  
“The guards don’t know shit. “  
“But-“  
“Boys I hate to disrupt but I do hear voices in the next room.”  
“Put the key back and come in. If they don’t hear of see anything suspicious wwe may not be found.”  
Mrs. Hudson replaced the key before following Sherlock and John inside, shutting the door quietly.   
“John this is Mrs. Hudson, the coven leader I told you about.”  
“Hello dear. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”  
“Mrs. Hudson, lovely to meet you. Although the circumstances are less than desirable.”  
“Not to worry, dears. In fact I think I have a solution.”  
“Right now I think we’ll try anything.”  
“Often the magical bond between fated lovers can be seen physically. It happens in all sorts of ways, but typically a simple spell can be done to show that the same soul resides in two bodies. It’s called a Soul Seek. When the spell is performed on any one person, their soul will rise temporarily from their body, visible to those around. But when performed on two people with a bond like yours, it will show that you share the same soul.”  
“That’s quite interesting, Mrs. Hudson, but I don’t see how it will prove John’s innocence.”  
“I have an old friend who I’ve asked to attend the trial tomorrow. Her name is Agnes Turner, and she’s a recognized expert on these matters. If the two of you share the same soul, one of you cannot hold the other under any sort of magical control. That is to say, Sherlock, if you defend John and his actions as life saving and necessary, rather than attempted murder and kidnapping, the court will have no other choice but to believe you.”  
“but what about the murder charges?”  
“Agnes and I can help with that, too. I’ve got a hunch that your ‘curse’ became a prophecy when you were bonded with a future king.”  
“How so?”  
“Well, if John was cursed to remain a dragon until he met his soulmate, and that soulmate happens to be a rightful king, I believe that means that the previous majesties would have to pass on in order for the two new kings to take their rightful place. Once the two of you decided to accept your fate, the prophecy came true.”  
“So how do we prove that?”  
“That part is quite a bit trickier. But not impossible. Once Agnes arrives we’ll talk about that. Between the two of us, there must be enough knowledge to find the answer.”  
The door urst open, slamming against the wall.   
“Brother mine, how interesting that I might run into you here.”  
“You can’t keep me locked up too Mycroft. If we’re both entitled to the throne neither of us has that power.”  
“Well, brother dear, you’re in luck. I went to your room when I decided to let my compassion override my desire to protect you, but found it empty. I figured I might find you here.”  
“I see. So I assume by that you must mean Lestrade returned from his journey and demanded you begin acting less childish?”  
“Evening, Sherlock!” Greg’s voice called from down the hall. Mycroft knit his eyebrows, sneering at John. “You’re also in luck- a trial has been set by the people for a week from now.”  
“With judiciaries from unbiased, unbribed sources.” Beamed Greg.   
“A week from now?”  
“Unfortunately I couldn’t do much about that. But it will ensure the most unbiased of juries and judges.” Greg reassured.   
“And in the meantime, the law states that all awaiting accused captives must be kept in clean, warm, safe conditions, fed well, and cannot be tortured or questioned. I’ll be overseeing that these conditions are met.”  
An audible sigh and a low grumble from one particular older brother filled the small room.   
“But you cannot interact with one another whatsoever prior to the trial.” Mycroft gleamed.   
“However, you may consult with your lawyers. John, do you have someone in mind you’d like to represent you?”  
John turned to Mrs. Hudson. She nodded slowly.   
“Myself and Agnes Turner will represent him, along with my good friend Salvador Nick. He’s the best lawyer I know.”  
“You’re in good hands John. Let me show you to your new accommodations. “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter I completed. I have a few paragraphs of planning fo the trial, which would be the last chapter, and a potential epilogue. I'm sorry- I know how frustrating it is to have an unfinished story. I would like to finish this, but I make no certain promises.


End file.
